


Think of the Man You Want Most To Be

by recoveringrabbit



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Department store au, F/M, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7774462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a nice commission is not the only thing Jemma gets from her best sale of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Think of the Man You Want Most To Be

“Hello, sir! How are you doing today?”

The man jumped as if electrocuted, nearly knocking over a mannequin as he spun around, flailing wildly. Reaching out to stead it, Jemma offered a reassuring smile. “Goodness, these things do pop out at one, don’t they? You can imagine it’s rather eerie in the early morning. I’m never quite able to believe they aren’t really aliens.”

“Sorry,” he said—whether to her or it she couldn’t determine, being too occupied deciding if she had actually detected an accent. If he would say something else. . . but he remained silent, casually pretending to check the price tag protruding from the mannequin’s sleeve. His wide blue stare, coupled with a muffled gulp, told her everything she needed to know.

“Can I help you find anything, sir?”

Hastily shoving the ticket back up the cuff, he shook his head quickly, sending his slightly too-long curls bouncing. “Er, no. No thank you. I can manage.”

Definitely an accent, and definitely a first-timer. This man needed her help. But Jemma hadn’t become her department’s top seller three quarters in a row without learning when to shove her oar in and when to sail away, so she nodded and smiled again. “Okay. If you need a dressing room, just let me know.” And then she glided back to the cash wrap to call people about their alterations. If it also provided the perfect vantage point from which to observe Scotty, no one had to know.

She watched several of her co-workers approach him and be rebuffed, laughed at his face when he picked up a Ferragamo belt and put it down hastily, and sighed inwardly at the careless way he rooted through the piles of John Varvados jumpers. When he stalled somewhere in the middle of the department with a striped purple shirt in one hand and a lightly-patterned, bright red tie in the other, she knew her time had come. Selecting a few option from the central tie tower, she sidled over as subtly as possible, coming from the front so as not to spook him again. “Did you need a fitting room, sir?”

Her carefulness went unappreciated. If possible, he appeared even more panicked than the first time. “No, I’m, um, still looking.”

“That’s fine,” she said, “is it all right if I make a suggestion, then? I didn’t know if you saw these ties, but I think you might like them a little better with that shirt. Mixing patterns is absolutely on trend, but it’s best to keep things in the same color family. May I?” She held out her hand and waited for him to put the shirt in it obediently, then draped her selections across the folded shirt. “See? And it will really bring out your eyes.”

To her surprise, he yanked the shirt out of her hands and snapped, “I know blue goes with my eyes. I have a hundred blue ties already.”

Her smile became a shade less genuine—but only a shade, because first-timers were always sensitive—and she allowed understanding to wash across her face. “Do you need a red tie specifically, then? We might be able to find one with a bluer undertone that will work.”

“No, I need—” He stopped short, pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand holding the tie, and winced. “I needtobuyasuit.”

“A suit?” she repeated as though it surprised her, as though she hadn’t seen the way he wandered past the rows of jackets and trousers with the look of a lap dog passing a German shepherd. “How lucky for you we have plenty. What are you looking for exactly?”

“I don’t know. Trousers and a jacket.”

She bit back a grin. “Do you know a color? The number of buttons? The leg width?”

He held out his hands helplessly.

Taking the opportunity to divest him of the criminal combination he still held, she hugged them to her chest and canted her head. “Have you got a suit now?”

“Of course,” he said hotly, “I’m a grown man, after all.”

“There’s no shame if you don’t,” she soothed, “plenty of grown men make do with slacks and a blazer.”

He ran one finger across the top of the fixture, appearing to inspect the sheen and slide. Which were both impeccable, as Jemma knew full-well; she had dusted it only that morning. Coming to the end, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. “Well, I do.”

“Good! Then we already know a little of what you like.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “See, the thing is, my mum picked it out for me when I was sixteen and it doesn’t really. . .” He waved his hands vaguely in front of his chest. “Fit. Anymore.”

She cast an appraising eye over his physique. Not built, but solidly trim. She couldn’t see his arms under the thick cardigan, but she expected they were proportional to the rest of his body. The controlled way he held himself suggested he had only recently learned to keep from knocking things over. If she had to guess, he had been a scrawny kid who grew up into a nicely shaped man without noticing. “No,” she said, “I expect not.”

Not meeting her eyes, he reached up to scratch at his scruff and nodded. “So, um, I haven’t worn it in about five years, but I’m presenting at a conference and I have to, you know, look professional, and my friend Trip said—”

“You know Trip!”

He blanched a little, his hand moving from his cheek to the back of his neck. “Yeah. Well, I know his girlfriend Daisy better—we went to school together—but, yeah. Do you know Trip? Are you Jemma, then?”

“I am,” she said, glowing a little. She knew Trip relied on her expertise, but hadn’t realized he valued it enough to recommend her to his friends. Even though selling was hardly her ultimate career goal, the confirmation of her talent for it pleased her exceedingly. “Trip is one of my favorite customers.”

“He didn’t tell me you were English,” the man said, musingly, then shook himself back to attention. “Anyway, he said I should come here. I thought I could do it myself, but—” Gesturing around the department, he looked at her beseechingly.

“I know,” she said sympathetically. “It’s a bit overwhelming.”

“It’s embarrassing, is what it is! I’ve got a doctorate in applied physics, for God’s sake, I ought to be able to dress myself.”

Her heart skipped a beat—she couldn’t help it, everyone knew brainy was the new sexy—and she stumbled a little over the beginning of her sentence, trying to keep it from being an overwhelming flood of questions about his field of expertise. “Ah, well, it’s not correlative, fashion and physics. Or any of the sciences, really. I mean, someone has likely done research into the maths of it, or the color spectrum, but. . .” She trailed off as she realized that his creased forehead had shifted from irritated to confused, and covered with a little laugh. “Never mind! Don’t mind me, I do tend to prattle about science when given the opportunity, which isn’t often here, more’s the pity, since I really know it better than ties, even, and I can’t be touched in ties. I have a doctorate too. In chemistry, not fashion.”

“Chemistry,” he repeated blankly.

The repetition made her aware of the possible misinterpretation, which—oh dear, she hadn’t meant—entirely unprofessional— “Of the scientific sort!” she blurted, and went scarlet, fighting the impulse to bury her face in her hands. Lord, and he was already uncomfortable. She had mucked this up thoroughly, hadn’t she?

Then, to her utter relief, a chuckle broke through her embarrassed haze. “So, I already know you’re good at ties. How are you at suits?”

She dared to glance up and found a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. On anyone else, it might have been mocking, but the amusement in his eyes seemed to invite her to laugh as well. Not quite able to manage that, she smiled instead. “Do you think Trip has good style?”

“Trip,” he said fervently, “is an Adonis.”

Acknowledging the truth of the statement with a quick shrug, she held out her hand to shake. “By the time I’m done with you, people will be saying ‘Trip who?’”

He took her hand firmly and shook it twice, his callouses rasping pleasantly against her palm. “I’m Fitz, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Fitz.” She let his hand go and rubbed her own against her leg, hoping to stop the static tingle. “Now, let me show you some suits. I think you’re a Ted Baker man, myself, but we’ll try a few, all right?”

Trailing her into the suit section, he crossed his arms and stared at the first rack. “Physics is less complicated.”

“What do you specialize in?” she asked as she pulled out a BOSS suit and put it right back.

His eyes lit up, as she had expected they would, and he launched into a detailed explanation. Listening with interest, she took advantage of his distraction to access his likes and dislikes without drawing attention to it. In truth it took her much longer than it should have, since she kept stopping to ask questions or offer her own ideas. More than once she found herself so busy thinking about attractive electrons in nanotechnology that she realized she had flipped past four or five possibilities without due consideration. After a subtle glance at her watch informed her it had been a half hour, she bundled Fitz into a dressing room with several suits, a Burberry belt, and a pair of alterations’ dress shoes. “Try the grey one first,” she directed.

“Not the blue to go with my eyes?” he asked with more than a hint of mockery.

“We’ll build up to it.”

The grey looked good, the black looked better, but the blue one—when he came out in the blue suit, she had to bite her tongue to dam back the entirely inappropriate comments that sprung to mind. He _did_ , though. “What do you think?” he asked, ruining the lines with slumped shoulders and hidden hands.

Hoping her expression displayed judicious appreciation and nothing more, she nodded thoughtfully. “The color’s good. I think trim-fit is definitely the way to go for your build. You should come see what you think.”

A little shamefacedly, he came around the corner and stepped onto the small platform in front of the mirror. Jemma never got tired of this part. As soon as he caught sight of himself, he pulled his hands from his pockets and straightened up, his mouth dropping slightly open. “Do I look. . . taller?” he asked, not looking away.

She came around to stand beside him. “I am very small, and you are standing on a platform. But yes, I think you may look a bit taller. Because you’re standing up straight, for goodness’s sake! See what a difference it makes?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. He turned to her sharply, suddenly shy. “It’s this one, right? This is the best one.”

“Yes,” she agreed with an encouraging smile. “Let me just go get alterations. How do you feel about that shirt? Do you have proper shoes?”

“I thought so, but maybe not? Do I wear black with this?”

“Brown would be better.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Leave it to me. I’ll handle it.”

She sent a tailor in, hunted up several pairs of shoes, draped another tie over her shoulder just in case, and went back into the dressing room, where Fitz stood with his arms spread eagled while the tailor measured around his chest. She had been right, she noticed, about his arms. “If you have a degree in chemistry,” he said, apropos of nothing, “what are you doing here?”

She put the shoes down on the platform, carefully lining the toes with the edge. Clearly, she hadn’t been thinking earlier; she didn’t tell people about her doctorate on purpose to avoid this conversation. She knew why she had stopped—the academic world was stifling and the private sector greedy, and it was killing her—but explaining it proved difficult. “Oh, you know,” she said, her voice a little creaky. “I studied because I wanted to help people, and I found that to be a unique desire. Grants aren’t so forthcoming when there’s no financial gain to be had.”

“Can’t you teach?” He obeyed the tailor’s nudge and turned. “Or, I don’t know, get on with a research position? I thought you were really on to something earlier. It gave me new ideas, at least.”

“Theoretically.” Holding up the tie, she quirked an eyebrow in a silent question.

Thankfully, he understood not to press. “I have a million blue ties already. Why do I need another one?”

“How old is your newest tie?” she shot back, making an _I thought so_ face when he sighed. “You don’t have to get this one, but consider how the ties you have live up to your new suit.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror, “about that, are all these alterations really necessary? It fits pretty well already.”

“Pretty well is not very well, and if you _can_ have a suit that fits very well, why wouldn’t you? I thought you wanted to reach Trip-like levels of handsome.”

“But that’s not possible, no matter how dressed up I am.”

“I don’t know,” she said, hanging the tie over the jacket to study its effect, “I think you’re giving him a run for his money.”

The words came out before she heard them, and she froze halfway back to the platform. She couldn’t look at Fitz. Instead, she met the tailor’s smirk in the mirror, said “well, you’re in good hands here,” and bolted from the alterations area to go splash some water on her face. This was ridiculous.

He came up to her about fifteen minutes later, back in his own clothes with the pile of furnishings stacked on a shoebox and the alterations ticket in hand, and pushed the things across the counter silently. She rang them up without speaking either, not sure what to say to put things back on a professional footing. Not that they weren’t on a professional footing, except for her own stupid behavior, but maybe he hadn’t noticed what she said and was only being quiet because she had abandoned him quite rudely, really—

“So, the conference is next Saturday.”

She looked up sharply, almost sticking her finger on the just-removed sensor. “Yes?”

“Will, um, will—” He huffed a quick breath, shaking his head. “The alterations will be done by then, right?”

“Oh!” She refused to allow herself a second of disappointment. What else did she think he was going to say? “Of course. It’s just a bit of hemming, really. I’ll ring you when it’s done.”

“Good. Great.”

And then he lapsed back into silence, giving monosyllabic answers to her necessary questions—except when she asked his first name to input it in the alterations record, since it was, unbelievably, Leopold. “All right,” she said when she had elongated the process as long as she possibly could, “that’s that sorted, then. I’ve emailed you your receipt; did you want the paper copy as well?”

“Sure.”

She nodded, finding comfort in the familiar motions. Out of habit, she reached into the drawer for her business card and stapled it to the receipt. “That’s my card; it has my email and my number on it, so you can text me if you think of anything else you need.”

“Your number?” he repeated, and she found her fingers twisting together.

“It’s an app—my work text number, not my personal number. For work.”

“Oh. Ah.” He nodded so quickly he looked like a tacky souvenir one might purchase at a rest stop. Out of relief, no doubt. “Well, thank you for all your help. I, um, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“My pleasure.” Coming around the counter, she handed him his bags, careful to keep her hand as far from his as she possibly could. “I’ll see you when you come back to pick up your suit, of course, but good luck as you prepare.”

“Yup.” He rocked back on his heels, staring at the ground. “Well, goodbye.”

She watched him hurry down the aisle for a second before mentally shaking herself. That had been a pleasant diversion, but nothing more; she had dozens of customers in a day and would now move on to the next one. A good sale! That was all. With a sigh, she gathered the pile of blazers hanging by the counter and struggled to organize the hangers to face the same direction. Honestly, why didn’t people have a little forethought?

“Jemma?”

The coats nearly slipped out of her hands, but she caught them before they hit the floor. “Fitz! Did I forget something?”

“No, I did.” He reached into his pocket and pulled something out, smacking it firmly on the counter and sliding it towards her. “I think you should come to the conference. It might be a little out of your field but there’s loads of people there who are looking to invest in new ideas that help people. This should get you in.”

She picked up the small card in a daze, head spinning with the opportunity he offered. “What is it?”

“My business card.”

Which she would have known, if she had been able to look at it instead of him. Glancing down, she caught a glimpse of a dark, handwritten scrawl.

“And, um,” Fitz said, quiet but firm. “That’s my number. My personal number. Just, um, if you—I mean, I thought we had a good conversation? And I watch Doctor Who, too, and—”

“Sold,” she said.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is from Legally Blonde: The Musical. So?
> 
> I am not a salesperson, but I do work in a department store, so this is fairly accurate to my workplace, at least! Write what you know.


End file.
